


The Dragon Marque

by Cyn



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Prostitution, Tattoos, The Night Court
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyn/pseuds/Cyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time in a century, someone has a dragon marque. Arthur doesn't want to think about the implications.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dragon Marque

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Kushiel's Legacy series by Jacqueline Carey. The Night Court is composed of thirteen houses where men and women are trained to be high-class courtesans. they are indentured to their houses until they make enough to finish a marque - a tattoo running up their back.

There have been three dragon marques that Arthur knows of; the last was a century ago, given to the last known warlock. Arthur knows it well, because a picture of the marque - of the last known adept to bear the dragon tattoo - hangs in the palace. He had been beloved of the reigning queen.

The dragon in the picture is black, the edges indistinct, the color dull, and the entire tattoo lifeless, easily dismissed. Like the man, like the magic. Forgettable, forgotten, and not even missed.

Now there is no forgetting it, because it pulses, alive and glorious in front of him. Half-done, not even that, rising from the tail bone over the small of the back and up just an inch or two. It needs more work, quite a bit actually, but by the time it is done, it will run up a slim back, disecting the paleness with bold, black lines and just the hint of other colors, reds and greens and golds. For now, there is only the tail and the hint of a wing tip and the beginning of the body, but it is obviously a dragon and Arthur closes his eyes against the implications of that.

"My lord?" the boy asks. "Do I not please you? If so, I can have someone else-"

"Your marque," Arthur says, cutting off the boy. "It is not usual for Cereus House."

Actually, it is unusual for anyone, but for an adept of the Night Court, it is almost impossible. Adepts end up with a marque of their house, and an adept of Cereus would have something fragile and lovely. Not a dragon. 

The boy looks at him over a shoulder and scowls at him for a second. It disappears quickly, replaced by a smile all too fake for Arthur's liking.

The fire rises in him, burning fast and furious when the boy licks his lips, a different feeling from the usual burn he feels, when everything is just a little too sharp. "I had enough to go to Kilgharrah. But he refused to do a design for Cereus House on my back. He said that I couldn't have anything but a dragon, which is completely stupid because everyone knows that dragons aren't for marques. The Dowager threw a fit, since it means I will have nothing to tie me back to Cereus when I finally make my marque, but he'd already started and it's not like they can kick me out."

Arthur stretches out his hand and thinks better of it, sitting back in his chair instead. The boy continues to ramble and Arthur ignores him, studying the dragon. Kilgharrah. Of course. He would know the truth behind the dragon marque, what it means. Arthur wonders if anyone else does. 

"What is your name?" He curls his fingers into his jacket, feeling the weight of the leather, solid and real and comforting. It grounds him, lets him focus again, and he can pull his eyes away from the design on the pale skin of the boy's back.

"Merlin," the boy says. Arthur knows that they had mentioned his name earlier, but at that point Arthur hadn't been paying attention to anything. There had been no point - this was meant to be a quick fuck, to satisfy an itch in his bones, nothing more.

Now, though - now things are different. Changed by the beginnings of the marque of a Night Court adept. In any other place, he would be a common whore. 

"Merlin." Arthur tests the name out, feels the weight of it on his tongue, lets the syllables drag out of his lips. The boy shivers. The unexpected act makes the heat burning in Arthur flare. "You don't belong here, do you?"

"I'm beginning to think you don't either," Merlin mutters, his eyes narrowing in protest. "Just staring at me like you are. Can't get it-"

The words don't even make it out of Merlin's mouth before Arthur has them on the bed, Merlin's hands held captive above his head. Arthur leans over the boy, mouth close to his ear. "I wouldn't finish that, if I were you."

"Well it's true! You're just sitting there staring and not touching."

"You're a Night Court adept, you should be used to people looking and making small talk."

"Not in the bedroom."

"Are they all quick to come in here and fuck you, Merlin?" Arthur shifts, presses down into Merlin's ass, delighting in the delicious drag of cloth against his arousal. He knows Merlin can feel it. "Don't any of them want to savor you? Watch you squirm beneath their gaze, then squirm beneath their hands and their mouth?" Right on cue, Merlin squirms beneath him and Arthur slides his hands down, grasping slim hips to hold him still. Merlin's hands stay above his head. "Take you to the brink and pull back, over and over again, until you are begging? Or do they just like animals, fast and rough and over before you know it?"

"We aren't Valerian," Merlin manages to mumble, turning his head to look at Arthur again. His eyes are dark with desire, but his tone makes Arthur grin. Aroused and desperate, but still mocking and still fighting back. He likes spirit. 

"I didn't say anything about pain, sweetheart. Just the sweetest ecstasy you've ever known." And oh, how Arthur wants to make him experience it. Wants Merlin, beneath him and alive with pleasure until it is too much. Arthur fumbles with his trousers, pushing them down with little finesse, desperate to feel Merlin against him. "But the ones who come here, they wouldn't make you beg. Oh no, they'll touch and caress and treat you like a delicate little doll and fuck you just as slowly and softly."

Merlin is shifting beneath him, panting already, and Arthur chuckles. The adepts of Cereus House are sweet and fragile and beautiful. Sometimes they have a hidden strength in them, but most of them fade away with time or anything remotely stressful. The boy beneath him will do none of that; everything that is fragile and fleeting about him is only a mask. 

"You hate it." Arthur knows this, without knowing how he knows it. His fingers slip between the cheeks of his ass, finding his entrance and pressing in. The Dowager had seen to his request; the boy is prepared, slick and loose and all too quickly Arthur has three fingers in him, pumping only for a second. "You want to be fucked, quick and dirty and _hard_. You want to be made to beg. Are you sure you aren't meant for Valerian?" 

"Fuck no," Merlin gasps out, although the wild look in his eyes betrays his words. 

"Such language," Arthur chides. "Don't worry, little dragon, I'll give you what you need." With that, he moves his fingers and replaces them with his cock, sliding in with a powerful thrust. "Can't take my time tonight, make you beg for me, so it'll have to be quick and dirty."

Merlin is trembling beneath him, but not from fear; he rises to meet each of Arthur's thrusts, arches back into him, desperate and panting, and comes without a hand on his cock. The force of Merlin's orgasm rips Arthur's from him as well and he collapses on the boy. The itch in his bones is gone, and the fire has been banked; Arthur exhales, at peace for the first time in a week, a month. Both feelings will be back within days, because Arthur can't remember a time when they weren't part of his life. But it's enough for now that they are sated.

"I'm not meant for Valerian," Merlin tells him, when Arthur pulls out and fixes his clothing. Merlin stretches, into a boneless pile on the bed, like a cat relaxing after a hunt.

"You're not," Arthur agrees, reaching out to run a hand through Merlin's hair. "But you are in the wrong House. Just imagine what they would say if I mentioned what happened in here."

"If you're so sure that I don't belong here, where do I belong then?" 

_In my bed_ , Arthur wants to say but dares not to. He simply shrugs and drops a pouch on the table next to the bed. "For you."

-

"Dowager." Arthur steps close to the woman who runs Cereus House, first house of the Night Court. "Merlin. I want him sent to the palace - no, wait. I'll be back, tomorrow night. Make sure he is free; no one is to have him tomorrow, before I arrive."

"Your Majesty." She smiles, betraying no emotions in her face or her voice, but Arthur knows she is delighted by the turn of events. "He is one of our most popular boys, especially since-"

"No one."

"Of course, Sire." She nods her head, gracious. "I will make sure he remains untouched tomorrow."

"Make sure he does not prepare himself, either." Arthur wants that pleasure, the feeling of Merlin stretching around his fingers, to himself. 

He will make Merlin dizzy with pleasure; make him wait to come until he is begging. There is a feast he needs to attend the following night, but he can send one of the dukes. Merlin will be worth it; Arthur can already feel the burn building again.


End file.
